


Sam and Dean Western Showdown!

by Kenta



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Cowboy Dean, Cowboy Sam, Gen, Gunplay, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 08:02:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8196955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kenta/pseuds/Kenta
Summary: Dean is the father of Sam and never wanted a son like Sam, so he does what any father in his situation would do. Take Sam out to the middle of nowhere and have a showdown with him.





	

            A farmer rubbed his teeth on a stray strand of wheat. The land was flat as far as the eye could see. It was like someone just barely couldn't make out the edge of the world in the distance. Nothing in the last twenty years had ever crossed his peripheral vision, but today something did.

            First he saw a dust cloud forming in a line in the distance. He looked up and his eyes followed it horizontally. The line of smoke ended in what looked like a small boat gliding across the desert, its sail blowing in the wind.

            The farmer's wheat fell out of his mouth.

           

            A boy's body rattled around in the small boat's interior. It rocked back and forth, skidding along the ground to the left, then tumbling on its right. His father and seven other men were pulling the boat with rope tied to their brown horses. The boy's father had a black horse. It made him look more distinguished, he remembered his father saying.

            "Havin' a fun ride?" the father taunted as he looked behind him at Sam.

            Sam was hanging off the edge of the boat until it shifted off a boulder. He flew in the air and hit the mast with his back. He slumped against it and put his hands behind him to hold onto it for his life.

            The father laughed. He struggled to get the words out before he yelled out, "You got some _good_ air that time, boy- Whoo!"

            "Shut up, Dean!" said the boy. He never called his father by any familial title. It was one of those father-son relationships. "I'd like to see you in this damn thing! So old you'd prob'ly break your back like it was glass!"

            Dean Brown grunted, snatched his gun so fast Sam didn't see him go for his holster, and pulled the trigger. The gun was aimed below Sam instead of at. He shot one of the ropes pulling the boat with the second shot. The boat moaned as it shifted and tilted. The boat began to travel forward crooked. The boy slid off the mast and fell onto the edge of the ship. He reached out at the mast. When he leaned on the edge the boat leaned closer to the ground. He looked at his father, but he had turned around. He reached out and jumped at the mast. He hooked his hands around it, then his legs. He hung there until he heard his father yell out.

            "Almost there, boys!"

            Sam looked beyond Dean and his seven men on horseback. He saw a large cliff in the middle of the flattest land he'd ever been on. At the bottom of the cliff was what looked like a hole in the rock. As they came nearer he could make it out better. It was a mining shaft.

            The boat came to a gradual slow and stopped vibrating underneath Sam's feet and in his arms. He let go with his legs first and then his arms. He landed on the rail of the small ship. His feet stepped off it, making the boat shake behind him. He pulled out a cigar and matchbox from a case in his pack. He struck the match with a strike down his shoulder and held it to the cigar sticking out of his mouth.

            One of the Dean's men, Shaky, Sam thought they called him, cocked his double barrel shotgun loudly in his direction. He knew they called him Shaky because he was always the first to notice when something was happening. Shaky made the thought of running away fall out Sam's head before he knew it was there.

            Sam blew smoke out of his mouth in Shaky’s direction. They just stared at each other.

            Dean's other six men got off their horses and tied them to a post by the mining shaft. Dean made his black horse trot over to Sam's front.

            He looked up at the sky and opened his mouth as if to find the right words.

            "Sam Brown. You have committed a terrible crime. You took up arms against your brother-"

            "Liar," the boy spat as he took the cigar from his mouth.

            "I didn' not," said Dean.

            "Not you! Yur' other damned son, Dean. He tried to kill me and blamed-"

            "You are charged," Dean interrupted loudly. "With de' attempted murder of your own brother, your flesh and blood. You are charged with annoying the hell out of me since your mother shit you into this world. And you are charged with an accidental existence that should never have been."

            Sam scowled up at him, took the cigar out of his mouth, and spat. It landed on the back of Deans hand.

            "That's about all your good at," said Dean as he wiped his hand on his pants.

            "Funny," said Sam as smoke came out of his mouth. "I have yet to see what the hell yur' good at." He placed the cigar back in his mouth.

            "Ha. Ha, yur' last joke,"

            Sam had no retort.

            "One minute till' you fill yur' hands… for the last time," said Dean.

            "Yeah, cause I don't need to shoot anyone but you," said Sam with a grimace on his face.

            Dean unseated himself from his horse with a swing of his leg. At first Sam expected him to strike, but he only laughed slowly as he walked away, taking off his gloves as he did.

            Shaky came up to Sam's left and shoved him with his shotgun. Sam began to walk away into the flat desert with him. They didn't stop until they had walked forty feet away.

            Sam looked out at the flat desert and stared, the sun behind him. He heard something fall to the ground and looked behind him. Shaky had dropped a gun belt to the ground. He took one glance at him and turned around to walk diagonally away from him. Ahead of Sam his father was standing there looking bored. That was when Sam quickly pieced together that he would duel his father. Shaky was walking away diagonally to get out of the way.

            His hands gripped the leather of the gun belt. At first he tried to pull it through his belt straps, but the belt was too big. Then he wrapped it around his waist and tightened it. He took out the gun and nervously squeezed it, afraid he might drop it and make himself look ridiculous. He took the cigar out with his free hand and breathed smoke.

            His body jumped before he realized the booming sound came from the gun. His belt fell down his legs as he stepped backwards in surprise. It lassoed his ankles and he fell on his back. He grunted when he landed. His hand felt the absence of the gun. Somewhere on his way down he had dropped it. The embarrassment was more painful then the fall.

            He got up and could hear eight men laughing across from him. He unstrapped the gun belt and stood up again, shaking. Then he noticed the bullet had ripped the cigar apart. All that remained in his hand was a stump of paper and tobacco. He was lucky his hand was still there.

            "Yur' all talk and no bite," Dean yelled out at him.

            For once Sam agreed with him. He strapped the belt around himself tighter this time. He bent down, picked up the gun, and brushed it off. He managed to make the revolver pop out after what seemed like five minutes of tinkering with the gun. He considered asking for another bullet, but stopped himself. A glint of light from his belt caught his attention. He looked down and found a row of bullets strapped to his belt, shining in the sunlight. He was loading the gun until he realized he was slipping the bullets in the wrong way. His wrist tilted upwards to make the bullets slide out of the revolver. They fell onto the desert ground, making dust come up. He quickly bent to retrieve them and put them in the right way.

            "I'm gettin' bored here," complained Dean. "When I count to three you pull that trigger."

            "Yeah, and miss," Sam said to himself. He found his hand was shaking as he loaded the last bullet.

            "One," Dean yelled.

            He stood up again in a hurry. Then his heartbeat started to feel like a hammer pounding itself out of his chest.

            "Two."

            This didn't feel like real life to him.

            "Three!"

            Sam's heart felt like a hand had grasped it and squeezed. He saw Dean's hand raise itself up, but he didn't see him reach for his gun. There it appeared in his hand before he could slip the gun out of the holster all the way. The shot blew seemingly from his hand at the boy in the distance. As he pulled the trigger his gun was struck by a bullet that came from nothing. It spiraled out of his hand.

            Sam heard something fast spin by his ear. He touched his chest and looked down at his body, but there was no blood. At first his lips parted in surprise, but then he heard another shot go off. It shook him out of his stupor and he began to run.

            He looked sideways to see Shaky being the one who was shooting at him. Then he saw only blood where Shaky's head used to be. His body fell as if someone had shoved him down. Sam realized he'd had his gun drawn for some time and began shooting out at the seven men. His bullets only found the mining shaft or the cliffside. Yet, somehow, the seven men began to drop like they were trying to fight the ground. There was a crack sound and a puff of dust from the dry ground in front of Sam. He stopped, skid, and headed in the direction behind him to his left. Dean had grasped his gun again. Sam had never seen him miss before today.

            As Sam ran he saw another glare in the distance. Then he saw several. It was as if unworldly lightning bugs, as bright as the sun, were glaring themselves and then going dim again.

            "Sniper!" Sam heard someone yell before their throat made an awkward sound. It was as if someone had hit his gut with a hammer just as he got the word out.

            "There's more than one you idjits!" Sam knew that to be Dean's voice as he felt a small chunk of metal whip through his clothes. He saw the same boulder the boat had hit on the way here. He sprinted for it as he shuttered his eyelids from the appearing and disappearing glares in the distance. Another bullet found his ear and ripped it. Sam screamed at the sky, stumbled, and kept running. He clutched his ear with both hands and hot water began to boil in his eyes as red water ran down the side of his face.

            He reached the boulder, jumped, and skid down over it. He turned around, drew his gun and raised his head to aim. He saw two bullets collide in the air in front of his forehead. He threw his head down to the ground and pulled the trigger. God only knows what he hit save for air. His gun blew up into the air with each shot until he pulled the trigger and it simply clicked, empty. He closed his eyes as if to curse and began to load the gun again. He saw his knees shaking.

            A wall of dust followed what sounded like God stomping on the Earth. Sam hugged the desert floor closer and dropped three unused bullets. At the same time the spindle snapped back inside the revolver and went off. Blood peppered Sam’s face from his foot. He screamed and dropped the gun. He snatched his foot in pain, but quickly let go when it just made him hurt more. He carefully moved it away from him and crawled.

He dared to look around the side of the boulder, but only saw dust at first. Then once it cleared he saw Dean and three other men. One was making a spark of light go against what looked like a thick red stick.

            "Shee'it'," Sam cursed to himself.

            Dean's man lunged his arm and the stick spiraled through the air. Sam followed it into the air, expecting to see it land on the ground nearby and take a few seconds to go off. He wouldn’t even be able to run away.

There was a loud crack of sound in the air as it exploded before the fuse reached the red. The man holding the next stick of dynamite looked up at the explosion in midair. He opened his mouth and scrunched his lips in a stupid looking confusion. He tilted his wrist with the hand holding the match as if to question. Dean had backed up inside the mine shaft while his three men kept looking across the distance for the missing shooter.

            The man holding the dynamite disappeared inside a cocoon of fire and sound as a bullet struck the red stick in his hand. Sam could have sworn the bullet had skid against the match, lighting it, before striking the dynamite, but he would never know for sure.

            The explosion sent the men to three burned black graves. Dean himself was blown back farther into the mining shaft. The entrance caved in blocking any further confrontation.

            Sam slowly raised himself on one foot, still clutching his ear. He raised his gun, but there were no more bullets coming his way. He saw Shaky's body and knew he would never shiver again. His hand holstered the revolver.

            He turned behind him and saw the glares of light appearing and disappearing. He squinted his eyes and looked closer. Then he spit and pulled out a magnifying glass with his other hand. He saw a mirror spinning on a metal pole in the distance. When it spun to cross a certain angle it glared sunlight at Sam's eye. He shook his head, closed his eyes, and let the glass circle drop from his hand. It dangled from a chain not unlike a necklace. He used his fingers to rub the pain of the glare from his eyes. He suddenly felt so aware of the heat radiating from the ground and rubbed the sweat off his neck.

            He bit his lip and attempted to touch his ruined ear with the hand that wasn't cupping it. It sent an even more painful surge of pain through his head. It felt like it was on fire. He looked down at his foot as he hung it in the air like a dog with an injured leg. He wondered if he would be able to keep it. He looked around the flat desert and wondered if he’d make it out of this wasteland to find out. Then he saw him.

            A man was walking towards him across the flat desert holding a sniper. He was holding one of the metal poles with a mirror on it. Sam knew this man was his savior. He had the power to save his life or take it away.

            Sam waited by the boulder while his shaky hand pulled another cigar out. He tried to strike the first match, but dropped it to the ground. He lit another and held it up to the cigar. He lit it, but it fell onto his lap and burned him.

            As the man came nearer Sam could hear his footsteps. His spurs made his steps sound like shaking change in a pocket. He pulled out his gun. A tear streaked down Sam’s face.

            “Stop yur’ bleedin’ heart,” said the man.

            Sam wiped the tear off his face. “Who are you?”

            “Get up,” He said.

            Sam didn’t at first, but the man only stared, waiting. He used the boulder to hobble on one foot. The pain still seared as if a saw was cutting his ear in half. His foot felt as if it were on fire.

            “Take out the damn gun,” He said. “I never kill a man lest he’s holdin’ something heavy.”

            Sam went to reach for his gun, but before his skin found the metal the man spoke again.

            “When yur’ hand touches iron you best be quick. I know I will.”

            Sam’s eyes widened. This man scared him more than Dean. There was a beat where both of them stood absolutely still. The only thing that moved was the wind and the cigar smoke from Sam’s mouth.

            Sam seized his gun and rushed to point it at the stranger. He saw him snatch his own gun and fire it with his wrist tilted up from his waistline while Sam was raising his own hand to align the sights together.

The bullet reached inside Sam’s chest and took his life. He hit the ground so hard his cigar flew into the air and landed on his back, smoldering.

“Name’s George,” said the man with a laugh. “I’d ask what’s yours, but dead men have no goddamn names.”

He walked over, spurred Sam in the ear with his boot, and reached down at him. He rolled his body over and didn’t even look at his face. It showed a dumb look with his mouth gaping open and his eyes looking bored. Of course, Sam wasn’t bored. He was dead.

George unsnapped the new gun belt and rolled Sam over twice to get him off of it. He undid his own and let it slip to the ground at his feet. His hands worked to put the new belt around his waistline. Then he looked down at the gun still in Sam’s hand. It had never even gone off. Not in his direction anyway. He picked it up, spun the spindle, and holstered it before it stopped making that winding sound. He took one last look at Sam, turned, and kept walking away.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Just something I had commissioned from a ghostwriter but all my ideas.


End file.
